


Die Kunst des Mordens

by Adelheid_Desgoffe_Taxis



Series: Zubrowka: A World Inside Out [2]
Category: The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:57:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1769860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adelheid_Desgoffe_Taxis/pseuds/Adelheid_Desgoffe_Taxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A humble attempt at writing a thriller story depicting the fate of Deputy Vilmos Kovács.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Die Kunst des Mordens

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated: to Messrs. Anderson, Dafoe and Goldblum.  
> Warning: Try to steal any of my works, and Mr. Jopling will chop off your fingers. One by one. At the very least.

We are the living toys in the hands of the Creator,

And I say this not for the sake of being witty.

The Almighty leads us by strings along His stage,

And as soon as we reach its end, He shoves us in a chest.

_Omar Khayyam (translated by the author)_

 

It was already dark outside, and the working day had come to an end. Deputy Vilmos Kovács looked at an old, yellowed photograph of his late wife with her hand-written brief message (“ _Édes Vilinek szerető Klárától"_ ) and, as he did every day before going home, locked it safely in a desk drawer. When looking at Klára’s face he remembered, as always, his only living son Leopold, who now resided somewhere in Berlin and had long ago stopped visiting his father.

 

Vilmos quickly put on his coat and hat, grabbed his walking stick with his left hand and headed for the door.

 

Then the events of the day just past occupied his thoughts once again. He remembered the outrageous visit paid to him by the Desgoffe-und-Taxis siblings a few hours ago. Remembered vividly the Count von Lutz, with his thick raven-black hair, slicked back haphazadly, and noble countenance sporting thin, slightly curled moustache, and an arrogant, but somewhat tired look in his narrowed olive-black eyes. Remembered his pale, dour, sinister sisters, these three aged Valkyries, swathed wholly in black. Remembered, finally, that loathsome brutish thug with the vacuous eyes of _ein Schwachkopf_ and a bulldog underbite, clad in a leather coat and high-heeled boots. That vile man had quickly got bored sitting on a chair by the door, stood up, walked to the open window, picked up the half-asleep phlegmatic Bolyhoska in his strong arms and stood there silently for a while, scratching him behind the ear, and then… and then, for no apparent reason, threw the poor cat out the window, right into the sleepy quiet courtyard. Obviously, hoping to intimidate Kovács... And how angry that toff the Count had got!.. Dared to speak to _him_ , a representative of the law, as if he were the lowliest footman.

 

Still, what else was there to expect from them?.. The aristocracy, my word, _mindegyik a mocsárban_... Over-the-top self-righteousness, by God… Impossibly conceited. « _Who you working for_ »… Who, indeed?..

 

Herr Kovács locked the door of the « _Kovács und Partnern_ » office, his hands trembling with silent indignation. He briskly went down the stairs into the spacious white-and-gray lobby, where the night-shift cleaners had already started their tedious work, and walked straight to the checkroom.

 

Without a word, the female attendant handed over to him a blood-stained canvas bag in which the corpse of the untimely deceased Bolyhoska, with his little fluffy head broken against the flagstone pavement, now rested. The Deputy took the bag from her, though somewhat angrily.

 

\- _Nun, sehen Sie, was für eine unglückliche Sache_ , - Kovács said to her awkwardly, apologetically. - _Er ist auf der Fensterbank gewesen, hat sich in der Sonne gesonnt, die Luft geatmet - und ist aus dem Fenster gefallen... Nun, bei ihm ist nichts zu holen, er war schon älter_.

 

The girl listened sympathetically to this nonsense, nodded to him, and, having said goodbye to her, Kovács exited the building with a deep sigh of relief. It was highly unlikely that she had believed him, but on the other hand, most Zubrowkians didn’t seem to give a damn for someone else’s problems.

 

.…<<<...()…>>>….

 

...At that moment, J. G. Jopling threw aside the fresh evening issue of that dull, insipid rag of « _Der Transalpine Jodel_ », which he’d been forced to pretend to be leafing through one solid hour, and rose from his chair behind a broad white column in a far corner of the large echoing lobby. The traitor of a lawyer was leaving. It was time to follow in his wake.

 

.…<<<...()…>>>….

 

…Vilmos Kovács passed the deep resonant well-yard where, until recently, his dear dead Persian had been laying sprawled on the ground, his gorgeous fur soaked with blood. The back side of the old office building looked to the high and elaborately Gothic clock tower of Lutzbahn Railway Station. The entrance side, on the other way, faced the wide and lovely downtown Pařížska Street of small thin trees, leafless at that time of the year, and elegant five-to-nine-storey houses built at the beginning of the century.

 

The Deputy came out onto the pavement, which was covered with a thin layer of fresh and crispy autumn snow. The frosty air was flooded with the bright light of cast-iron streetlamps and numerous shopwindows.

 

Vilmos crossed the street and stood at the Lutz Overland Metropolitan tram stop. When _egy villamos_ arrived, Kovács assisted an old lady to climb inside and boarded after her.

 

He took a seat by the window, having laid the bag with the small corpse of his pet – he still could not get used to just how cold and motionless it felt, – on his knees with the intention of burying it in his courtyard later. He had nearly lowered the curtain on the small window pane, when suddenly...

 

…Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of something black, shiny and metallic, to the right of the road. A motorcycle. Huge, dark, redoubtable one. And sitting on it... _Áldott Szűz_ , Bőrkabát. The one. The fellow who always escorted the Count von Lutz – Kovács still hadn’t learned his name, that’s why he mentally dubbed him just “the leather-coat” ... The murderer of Bolyhoska. _Ez a szégyentelen gazember, ez a szemétláda a hihetetlenül aljas arcu, ez a szörnyeteg emberi formában_... Watching him. Had probably been somewhere in the building all the time, while Kovács was busy working in his office… The same sullen, shameless, impassive, expressionless face. Chiseled cheekbones, deep-set eyes, the lower jaw thrust forward like a bulldog’s. Looking at Vilmos, intently. His long black coat glistened in the streetlight, as if smeared with oil, and brass knuckledusters gleamed dimly on his fingers. Well, what did he want now, _a fenébe is_?..

 

Vilmos cursed softly in Hungarian. He never allowed himself to resort to vulgar invective these days, but obviously, his youth spent in the company of Hungarian revolutionaries proved not to be wasted in vain, and something told him that at the current moment some foul language was fully justified.

 

“May someone break _your_ ugly head, you bastard”, - Kovács wished to the rogue mentally and, holding up the bag with Bolyhoska’s small dead body inside, shook it before the eyes of the cretin. The goddamn thug didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

 

…But maybe, the Deputy reasoned, the scoundrel had just been hanging around not far from here, was now going to ride home or somewhere on this metal behemoth of his, but had collided with Kovács right here just by pure accident...

 

Yes, probably it was just that, and nothing more.

 

.…<<<...()…>>>….

 

The tram started along the evening street, rattling quietly.

 

After a little while, a strange icy-cold chill ran suddenly up the Deputy’s back. He slowly turned his head around, looked through the back window.

 

 _Bőrkabát_.

 

The loud howling of his motorbike could be distinctly heard here, inside the tram, even through the closed windows. He was riding exactly behind, obviously trying not to lose sight of the Deputy.

 

“That way he’s going to follow me up to my very house”, - Vilmos thought. He looked around, assessing the situation. The few remaining passengers didn’t take any notice of the motorcycle on the tail.

 

The tram stopped. A station scheme board helpfully informed:

 

« _Kunstmuseum_ ».

 

Without hesitation, Vilmos got off the tram.

 

Before him, a few dozen meters away, stretched in a wide semicircle the grand building of the Lutz Art Museum, with its richly carved stone walls, its large windows across the front, its decorative domes and intricate turrets.

 

Kovács decided that here was a place where he could try and shake off his pursuer. After all, the bastard on the goddam _motorkerékpár_ might not have noticed where exactly Kovács had got off the tram. But even if he did notice... There was still some time left for the Deputy, he hoped.

 

It was only that because of the rather unwieldy bag in his hand the Deputy’s mobility was considerably reduced. Kovács sighed and quickly lowered his dear Bolyhoska’s body in the nearest litter-bin. _Isten veled, szeretett cicám, Bolyhoskám, nem azért jöttem, hogy eltemesse téged, mint illik egy hűséges állat, egyetlen barátomot_.

 

The cold October night was not already far away. But the museum was still open. There was not a soul in the closest vicinity, and the motorbike-riding psycho was nowhere to be seen, as well.

 

Kovács reckoned that he had at least a quarter of an hour at his disposal. To take shelter in this building, and then, when Bőrkabát, _ez a pszichopata_ , would finally guess that the trace of his victim was lost, it would be possible for him to board another tram and go home.

 

.…<<<...()…>>>…. .

 

...Jopling left his iron steed at the wrought-iron gate of the museum and walked to the entrance, slowly clenching and unclenching his fists in anticipation of delicious violence. Newly fallen autumn snow crunched under his heavy boots.

 

Did this dumbass of an attorney, whose big, fat, lazy fluffy beast he’d hurled out a window earlier in the day, seriously think he would be able to outwit _him_ , the best Inquiry Agent in the whole country, whom not a single victim had ever had a chance to escape?!..

 

A slight grin appeared on Jopling’s scarred, austere face. Well, it would be absolutely no sweat for him to be done with such a character as this one... Just a nice little stroll, really. Especially since the man had driven himself into a corner. Jopling never understood people who sincerely believed in perfect reliability of hiding in closed and isolated buildings. No doubt, sometimes, very rarely, it _did_ work, but... but _not_ if you were being pursued by Private Agent J. G. Jopling, Esquire. No-o-o-o, definitely not.

 

Whatever you might say, Zubrowka was not the States, where Jopling had had to deal with such terrible enemies that one could really expect _anything_ from them and who, had Jopling’s luck once turned away from him, could have easily reduced him to dust... In comparison with those times, the things he was doing now were just pure fun, for which a generous reward was also granted. And how to make best use of the money the Count von Lutz generously paid him for his work, Jopling knew pretty well... The main thing was to keep cool, and this skill he had mastered perfectly.

 

.…<<<...()…>>>….

 

_Fifteen minutes_

 

...In the large, high-ceilinged, Baroque-style entrance hall, near the attendant’s desk, stood a mechanical board counting down the time until closing. « _Museum schließt in 15 Minuten_ », - Kovács read.

 

The Deputy turned right, walked up the grand staircase, his shoes echoing loudly. Strode into the first chamber, paused briefly. That was _Régi Képtár_ \- the Old Masters Hall. The most grandiose. Lots of exquisite canvases hung on the walls. Kovács remembered most of the paintings. He knew the place well. Been here a great many times before. But – not in such circumstances as now… _Ó, Istenem, nem, egyáltalán nem ilyen körülmények között_.

 

Vilmos remained motionless for some time, hoping to get a little rest at long last.

 

His breathing, it seemed, was far too loud for such a desperate situation.

 

Thick, wiry, ominous shadows filled the deep corners of the dimly-lit hall.

 

Then, suddenly, heavy footsteps clacked up the staircase towards the chamber, behind his back.

 

_Fourteen minutes_

 

…Hardly had Jopling stepped inside the museum than the figure 15 on the illuminated board changed to 14.

 

The sleepy lonely attendant did not pay any attention to the Agent. Perhaps he thought that this harsh, surly man in a black leather coat and wearing brass knuckles on both hands, just as well as that respectable gentleman with a cane and a small graying beard, had come here just before closing time with the sole purpose of enjoying art.

 

Perhaps the attendant simply decided that both of them had the full right to do so because they worked hard and did not have time to visit this temple of art in the daytime.

 

Or maybe, like most Zubrowkians, he simply didn’t give a damn for other people’s problems.

 

…Jopling crossed the Old Masters Hall with an air of complete indifference, without even casting a glance at the lovely paintings. No, art was never of any interest to him. Art would always produce a skeptical smirk on Jopling’s face. Were there still people who sincerely believed that art was of any _worth_? That it was able to spread the good, generosity, compassion and so on? All of this were just empty words. And in every country Jopling had ever been – in Canada, in the States, here in Zubrowka - he had always seen clear evidence that people possessing these wonderful qualities formed a far smaller percentage of the population than people like him, like his friends and most of his enemies. Take Dmitri, the celebrated Count von Lutz, for example... He may well be considered a philanthropist and an art connoisseur, but he still preferred to safely dispose of his enemies once and for all – with Jopling’s hands, as it was. Art, my word!... An absolute waste of time and energy, that's what it was. And downright meaningless.

 

_Thirteen minutes_

 

…Vilmos Kovács exited the great masters’ chamber and detoured rapidly into an adjacent gallery, wide and spacious, full of splendid examples of the classical art, of large bronze vases and colorful murals and elegant marble statues which he would have stood admiring for a great while, with great pleasure, at any other time – but certainly not now.

 

Crossing this place as quickly and soundlessly as he could, Vilmos descended another staircase, almost as grand as the previous one. At the bottom he paused again, breathing heavily in horrible agitation.

 

Kovács did not even notice that he had begun to tremble.

 

Everything around him was unnaturally, uncannily quiet.

 

Then the sinister black shadow of his savage pursuer stretched slowly across the marble floor of a chamber to the Deputy’s left.

 

_Twelve Minutes_

 

…Kovács had already got very angry with himself for having chosen this huge darned _múzeum_ as a shelter. Apparently, he would have been much better if he had not left the tram and instead gone on riding in it to the bitter end, right until that rascal of a pursuer became out of petrol.

 

Or he might have gotten off and changed to another tram – because on a busy downtown street Bőrkabát or whoever would not have dared to lay a finger on the Deputy… would he?..

 

...Or he would have, for example, run instead to the nearest Police Militia station to seek help...

 

But now here he was, in a dark maze of the deserted museum, and no escape seemed possible, he was just wandering farther and farther away from the exit, nearly getting lost in the intricate arrangement of halls and chambers, and the thug relentlessly followed him, permanently staying close behind, and to take the way back meant to collide with the rascal face to face...

 

Kovács tried to move as quietly as possible, to avoid betraying his location and, holding his breath, listened intently to the sound of the rogue’s footsteps. With his every step he mentally repeated: « _Szar, szar, szar! Menj a pokolba, Dmitri, s Marguerite, s Laetizia, s Carolina, ti mocskos arisztokraták, és te, Mihaly Barisnokov, egy sikkasztó és egy kövér disznó!_ ». He did not understand why he suddenly remembered the infamous Mayor of Lutz, but he had a strange feeling that not only the Desgoffes-und-Taxis, but also this nefarious politician, whose dirty tricks the Deputy had happened once to investigate, was also responsible, to a certain degree, for the deplorable situation into which Vilmos was now thrown.

 

He paused once more and listened. The sound of footsteps died away. There was only silence.

 

He hoped with all his heart that the thug had remained far behind.

 

_Eleven minutes_

 

…Very soon Kovács began to panic. Once again the Deputy could hear the thunder of the damned scoundrel’s boots more and more distinctly, and there was no doubt that he was inexorably approaching. They were separated from each other by the distance of one and a half or maybe two rooms, and even that distance was inevitably shortening.

 

In the meantime, there was still not a soul around. It seemed that Vilmos could expect no help from the museum staff.

 

His heart was beating faster than ever, his breath became shallow and shuddery, his mouth went completely dry with dread. Despite the long warm coat he was wearing, he felt an unbearable chill.

 

He glanced left and right, the look in his weak eyes wild with horror. With a suddenly slackened, trembling hand Vilmos wiped his sweaty forehead, while clutching his cane more tightly in another hand.

 

« _Isten, segíts nekem. Isten, segíts nekem_ », - the Deputy begged under his breath in utter desperation.

 

_Ten Minutes_

 

…Vilmos finally entered a long and gloomy corridor cluttered with rows of medieval suits of armor at both sides of the central aisle. Kovács had barely reached its far end when the miscreant’s silhouette appeared in the doorway, outlined sharply against the backdrop of the brightly lit chamber behind him.

 

Long, ominous shadow stretched across the floor of the corridor. For some time the bastard remained unmoving, as if waiting for something.

 

Maybe he didn’t know that Kovács was here, after all, and just intended to take a look...

 

Vilmos desperately looked around until he saw a small door in the nearest wall, marked with a sign:

 

« _Verboten. Kein Durchgang_ ».

 

He pulled the handle. Not locked.

 

Trying his best to produce the minimal possible noise, Herr Kovács slipped behind the door and found himself in a dark, narrow, lightly snow-powdered alley, at the far end of which he discerned another door, this one being a little bigger and made of steel.

 

The attorney reached that other door literally in no time, and brought his whole weight to bear on the massive metal.

 

The door slid open, and a narrow alleyway appeared before his eyes. And on the opposite side – _mi a csoda – egy kerékpár felügyelet nélkül!_ And only two, maybe three, big strides away!..

 

The Deputy’s eyes behind his thick round glasses widened with mild disbelief and frantic hope.

 

« _Isten, köszönöm, köszönöm, Isten, dicsőség Néked_ », - Vilmos whimpered quietly, closing his eyes, almost starting to cry with unspeakable joy.

 

_Nine minutes_

 

…Jopling had just now realized that Kovács would guess about his approach by the sound of his footsteps.

 

The Agent stood still in the midst of the darkened aisle. Very quietly, he took off his heavy boots, remaining in thick black socks. Now he was able to move silently, and the attorney, who undoubtedly believed that he’d been able to finally break away from him, would suspect nothing until the very end.

 

Upright again, Jopling strode forward, calmly, quickly and determinedly.

 

_Eight Minutes_

 

…Entranced by the unexpected, miraculously bestowed upon him, chance to leave this cursed place, Herr Kovács did not immediately felt a heavy knuckleduster-wearing hand resting on his left shoulder, and when he did realize what was happening, bitter cold bound his body.

 

Casting a frenzied look behind himself, the Deputy saw the sullen, ruthless face of his pursuer just opposite his own, this smooth-shaven, skull-resembling face of a notorious thug, with sharply protruding cheekbones and massive lower jaw, with his forehead and lips and cheeks covered with scars, and with his plain short-cropped haircut. Vilmos discerned faint smells of old leather, engine oil and cheap brandy.

 

So, he still managed to find him somehow, still managed to cheat him, to get a hold on him, this bloody bastard, this... this...

 

_Seven minutes_

 

…Although Jopling was considerably shorter than Kovács, he was certainly much stronger than this pathetic bookworm of a lawyer, and much more experienced. 

 

The scoundrel slammed the door shut with all his might, and its hard metal edge instantly cut off the fingers on the Deputy’s right hand, with which he was grabbing the doorframe and which he didn’t had time to draw back. He howled in wild agony with sudden blinding pain, dropped his cane and lost any ability to resist, to fight back.

 

Then Jopling’s heavy fist hit Vilmos in the forehead, his brass knuckleduster breaking the skull bone. The terrible impact threw Herr Kovács against the wall, and his glasses flew off his face, shattering against the ground.

 

Jopling swung again, and the second blow toppled the lawyer backwards. The Agent’s every movement was precise, measured, adjusted. Jopling did his usual work calmly, silently, methodically – many long years of bloody practice had their undeniable effect – and although he kept a Luger pistol in the breast pocket of his coat at all times, he preferred to make use of it only in the most extreme situations, while the fellows the likes of this muddler, this slob of a Kovács he could easily kill with his bare hands.

 

_Six minutes_

 

…Vilmos was still alive when the rogue lifted him by his coat lapels and struck again, this time in the chest. Although his vision was clouded, blurred with the blood and the concussion, and although a torturous pain sank its sharp teeth into his mutilated hand and broken head, he realized that the eyes of the killer, deep-set, faded gray eyes, which were shining dimly in the last light of the passing day, did not express anything that one could have expected at such a moment – no anger, no hatred, no satisfaction – only terrible, icy-cold determination.

 

\- _Dögölj meg, te mocskos, büdös, hitvány rohadék,_ \- Kovács managed to croak with his last bit of strengh. - _Halj meg... ugyanúgy, mint a macskám... mint én. Gyötrelmes... halál_...

 

And then there was only darkness.

 

_Five Minutes_

 

…Jopling quickly dragged the Deputy’s body to an empty sarcophagus in the museum storeroom not far from the place where the hapless lawyer had found his death. Then Herr Kovács was carefully laid inside, with his arms folded on his chest, his unused cane left in his intact hand.

 

The time had expired.

 

The Private Agent cast one last, satisfied glance at the results of his work, then abruptly turned around and walked back to the service door, the threshold of which the unlucky attorney hadn’t been destined to cross. During the acts of violence Jopling always sustained remarkable equanimity, but after the work was done, just like now, he enjoyed unusually intense enthusiasm which rarely visited him.

 

 _This_ was the only kind of art which he really appreciated and of the possession of which he was really proud. The only kind of art that he valued and cherished.

 

 _The art of murder_.

 

The only kind of art that was of any benefit. And pleasure. And fun.

 

_Closing Time_

 

…At the back entrance doorstep once again, Jopling pulled his boots back on, then bent down, picked up the chopped-off fingers of his victim from the ice-and-snow-covered ground, wrapped them in a handkerchief and put it in his coat pocket.

 

Then he straightened up again, looked briefly around, stepped outside into the deserted alleyway and, bypassing the building, headed toward the front, where he had left his motorbike. The cold autumn night was swiftly shrouding the city.

 

He did not worry about the possibility of someone finding the body of the victim. Judging by the reaction of the museum workers at Jopling's appearance in this place earlier in the evening, they would not bother themselves to start searching until tomorrow.

 

Because, as he had ascertained during his long stay in this godforsaken country, Zubrowkians, in fact, didn’t give a bloody damn for people’s problems.

 

And, honestly, that was perfectly fine with him.

 

.…<<<...()…>>>….

 

“ _The impotence of the Lutz Police led to the exponential rise in privatized enforcement during this time. Once-marginalized bodyguards and gunmen were hired out of their hookshops and hopjoints and elevated into the proxy hegemony_ …” (The Akademie of Zubrowka Historical Archives, Lesson Three, Part Four).

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Die Kunst des Mordens - The Art of Murder (Germ.)  
> 2) “Édes Vilinek szerető Klárától” - “To dear Willy from loving Clara” (Hung.). Vilmos (Vili) is Hungarian for William.  
> 3) ein Schwachkopf - a dimwit (Germ.)  
> 4) Bolyhoska (pronounced [ʹboihoʃkə]) – an author’s attempt to coin a Hungarian pet name for “Fluffy”.  
> 5) mindegyik a mocsárban - to hell with them (Hung.)  
> 6) «Kovács und Partnern» - «Kovács and Associates» (Germ.)  
> 7) Nun, sehen Sie, was für eine unglückliche Sache - Well, you see, what an unfortunate thing (Germ.)  
> 8) Er ist auf der Fensterbank gewesen, hat sich in der Sonne gesonnt, die Luft geatmet - und ist aus dem Fenster gefallen... Nun, bei ihm ist nichts zu holen, er war schon alter... - He was sitting on a windowsill, basking in the sun, breathing the fresh air - and fell out the window... Well, it was not his fault, he was already rather old (Germ.)  
> 9) Pařížska Street - Inspired by the street of the same name in Prague.  
> 10) egy villamos - a tram (Hung.)  
> 11) Áldott Szűz - Blessed Virgin (Hung.)  
> 12) Bőrkabát (pronounced [ʹb'ɜːrkəbɑːt]) – a leather coat (Hung.)  
> 13) Ez a szégyentelen gazember, ez a szemétláda a hihetetlenül aljas arc, ez a szörnyeteg emberi formában - This shameless scoundrel, this vile scumbag with an unbelievably ugly mug, this monster in human form (Hung.)  
> 14) a fenébe is - damn it (Hung.)  
> 15) motorkerékpár - motorcycle (Hung.)  
> 16) Isten veled, szeretett cicám, Bolyhoskám, nem azért jöttem, hogy eltemesse téged, mint illik egy hűséges állat, egyetlen barátomot - Farewell, my dear kitty, my Fluffy, I did not have a chance to bury you in a way befitting a faithful pet and my only friend (Hung.).  
> 17) ez a pszichopata - this psychopath (Hung.)  
> 18) Museum schließt in 15 Minuten - Museum closes in 15 minutes (Germ.)  
> 19) Ó, Istenem, nem, egyáltalán nem ilyen körülmények között - Oh my God, no, not in such ones, not at all (Hung.)  
> 20) Szar, szar, szar! Menj a pokolba, Dmitri, s Marguerite, s Laetizia, s Carolina, ti mocskos arisztokraták, és te, Mihaly Barisnokov, egy sikkasztó és egy kövér disznó! - Shit, shit, shit! Go to hell, Dmitri and Marguerite and Laetizia and Carolina, you filthy aristocrats, and you, Mihai Barishnokov, an embezzler and a fat pig! (Hung.)  
> 21) Isten, segíts nekem. Isten, segíts nekem - Help me, Lord. Help me, Lord (Hung.)  
> 22) «Verboten. Kein Durchgang» - Prohibited. No passage (Germ.)  
> 23) mi a csoda – egy kerékpár felügyelet nélkül! - what a miracle – a derelict bicycle! (Hung.)  
> 24) Isten, köszönöm, köszönöm, Isten, dicsőség Néked - Oh Lord, thank You, thank You, Lord, may You be praised (Hung.)  
> 25) Dögölj meg, te mocskos, büdös, hitvány rohadék - Die, you filthy, rotten, loathsome bastard (Hung.)  
> 26) Halj meg... ugyanúgy, mint a macskám... mint én. Gyötrelmes... halál... - Die... just like my cat... just like me. Die a dreadful… death... (Hung.)


End file.
